His name was James and he was a hunter. He hunted for no other reason than it gave him pleasure.
He crouched in the tall, sere grass, his collar-length sun-bleached hair making him invisible from a distance. His face, too, blended in. He had crawled the last few meters to his current hiding spot, covering himself with mud from the river bank in the process. It helped, he noticed, to keep the insects at bay. That was good. He didn't need any distractions.
James had chosen his place with care on his arrival the previous afternoon. He now hid in a short strip of tall grass that flanked a game trail. Nearby, a large boulder, coming almost to his shoulder, offered his prey the illusion of safe shadows and high ground. Further to the right, away from the river, the grass was considerably shorter and, more importantly, burnt yellow-brown by the sun. His prey would stick out like a sore thumb if it went in that direction. Beyond lay a windrow of trees with their attendant carpet of dry underbrush that no one could navigate silently.
To his left (and James cautiously tilted his head to view it), was the river. It was wide and relatively shallow, with a current too strong for even someone of his weight to resist. Only in small eddy pools like the one that he faced did the current slow. But there were other dangers submerged in those deep, turbid pools. He had been told that no crocodiles lived near this river, but he kept a wary eye out for them anyway. It wouldn't be the first time his information had been wrong.
A raucous cry drew his attention upward. Vultures, he thought with disgust. It figured. They knew. He resisted the temptation to proclaim that the prey was his. That, more than the anticipatory croaking of a few birds, would scare off his prey.
He shifted his weight. His arrival had been carefully planned. The shadows had only begun to creep from the foot of the boulder as he'd settled down to wait. That, however, had been ages ago. The shadows were longer now.
His eyes were drawn to a movement and he stiffened. A huge snake slid into view on one slanted face of the boulder. Another hunter! James held his breath as the predator curled its long length into a comfortable waiting position. In spite of himself, James watched the forked tongue flicker in and out. Tasting the air, James remembered his granfather telling him long ago, tasting for danger, and for food. Its head swung in James' direction. Flicker, flicker went the tongue.
James tore his gaze from that mesmerizing appendage and stared at the rest of the animal. It wasn't poisonous, he realized. At least, the markings didn't match any of the descriptions he'd been taught to recognize. He relaxed. Another predator, yes, but not one that could be a serious danger to James himself.
He smiled. Another pair of eyes to watch for their mutual prey. That was good. The question would be, and his smile widened to a feral grin, who would be the faster? He was confident he knew the answer to that.
Despite the lateness of the day, the sun still beat down with a vengeance. The mud on James' face had dried to an irritating itch, one that took all his willpower to ignore. Insects droned by and the river provided a tenor descant to their bass rumble. The snake's tongue flicked in and out, in and out. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the eyelids of the two hunters lowered in unison.
A cool breeze fanned his cheek. His breathing changed, quickening as awareness approached. Eyelids creaked open. The horizon had tilted. Grass that had once grown skyward now spread across his vision like miniature horizon. To one side, a clear blue sky seemed darker, billowing clouds now hiding the relentless sun. The shadows were noticeably longer now, and softer. He still felt the sun's heat, though, seeping into the back of his outstretched hand.
He blinked. The trail, the grass and, inches from his hand-- With reptilian speed, he captured his prize, held it aloft and raced back toward camp.
"Mommy! Mommy! I catch-did a frog and saw a gardener snake, Mommy!"